Loving a Boleyn
by Reality's Runaway
Summary: The final hours of George Boleyn's life as told by a woman who knew him best--a mistress by a paradoxical name.


Loving a Boleyn

Loving a Boleyn

The hall was eerily quiet as Cromwell read the charges. Sweat dripped beneath my bodice and my hair snaked across my damp face; the man behind me exhaled humid, sticky breaths onto my already balmy skin. I felt like screaming and shattering the silence of the crowd—both for the unbearable heat and the injustice occurring before my eyes.

My lover stood on the stand. Alone. Afraid. As good as condemned.

And I was so completely powerless, unable to bring any comfort or solace. As I listened to the lies echo through the buttresses high above our heads, I uttered silent curses upon all this conceited oligarchy—even upon spoiled King Henry himself. This ecumenical court was composed of naught but haughty hypocrites and adulterers, but here they were, passing judgment on a blameless man—my innocent George.

Cromwell continued, "…being seduced by the devil, did knowingly commit adultery, high treason, and incest, all offenses against God and his Majesty. The punishment for said crimes is death."

My head began to spin. _Death_. I saw Jane Parker's shrewd face before me, laughing as she uttered that cruel, loathsome word. "He will face death, Hope. My sinful, unfaithful husband will die. His wicked sister, too—and I will smile at it," she had sneered in my ear, her hand clutched around my copper hair.

_Death_.

Not my George. Not my lovely, tender George.

The court was held in abeyance for a moment. George was dilatory with his response to the charges. He looked down at his feet, and from where I was standing, I thought I saw the faint glimmer of light reflect off a solitary tear. I stifled a sob, knowing full well how loud it would ring through the court. Hope. That was my name. But as George Boleyn looked into my eyes that moment and I let the tears flow, I ceased to be his pillar of hope in the tumultuous sea of uncertainty that was his life. And for my failure, I imagined myself the next morning hanging limp from our favorite oak tree, awaiting Jane Parker in hell.



The pouch at my side jingled with coins, an entire year's worth, as I climbed the stairs in the Tower. George forbade me from ever setting foot in that cold, evil place, no matter what the circumstances, but nothing would stop me from sharing a final moment with him before the morrow. No one took much notice of me, as I had dressed in my plainest clothes and also carried a basket of linens in my arm—I was merely one of many forlorn women delivering blankets and food to the imprisoned.

My legs ached as I ascended the final steps. Before I even reached his cell, the tears clouded my vision. I did my best to wipe them on my skirt—"Hope does not weep," he once said to me, the night my brother died, "It merely sighs and then smiles, looking ahead to the sunrise that will always come." It was one of the few, purely serious statements he ever uttered, that witty boy. I could not weep in front of George, not now.

The guard stopped me with his spear long before I neared the door. How I posed a threat was unbeknownst to me, but standing some distance away from the spearhead, I fumbled for my pouch.

"You are not Mary, nor Lady Rochford. What business do you have with the prisoner?" he inquired gruffly.

"My business with the prisoner concerns you not," I retorted, holding out the bag of coins. I kept my head low to hide my red eyes. "For your kindness please."

He eagerly snatched up the pouch and dumped its contents into his large gloved hand. Upon realizing the value he held, he bowed and hastily unlocked the door. "At least an hour," I ordered, stepping inside, my heart beating forcefully inside my chest.

The door locked behind me and I heard the content guard slump onto the floor to count his newly acquired wealth. The loss mattered little to me. The moment I spotted George huddled in the dark, damp corner, I was certain I would have paid my life for this final night. My heart melted at the sight and my whimpers grew into sobs. He lifted his head, face red with tears, yet wan with worry.

"Hope!" He spoke my name as if with relief, launching off the cold floor to embrace me. Wrapped in his arms, I lost all restraint and wept with such forcefulness I feared I would never be able to stop. He assumed my role of comforter and pulled me down into his lap, rocking me to and fro, singing a lullaby I recognized as one of Thomas Wyatt's.

I was a fool, coming here merely to cry. But George did not seem to mind. He kissed my hair and wiped away my tears, soothing me with his song, yet killing me with his love. How could I ever live without George Boleyn? That cunning boy who made me laugh as a child and as a woman still. I remember dashing out my door to catch George as he ran with his sisters out to the tall wheat fields for a race, or to the cool, dark forests for a game of robbers. Though I was a lowly peasant's daughter, they included me in their coterie, especially George. He would volunteer me for the part of damsel-in-distress, coming to my rescue and heroically slaying the horrifying dragon, suitably played by Anne. After his valiant deeds, he would kiss me on the cheek and exclaim, "You are the only girl I will ever marry!" Anne would pout at this, hating to share her brother's affections, but he would then give her a kiss, too, and propose another game. And when his sisters were sent abroad, George and I were inseparable until Oxford stole him from me, just at it had stolen my dear brother Piers.

George did not marry me, however. As unsurprising as it was—I being an orphaned tradeswoman and he being a confidant of the King of England—neither of us fully recovered; but I believe he received the worst of it. While I was merely left alone to wallow in my sorrow, George had to endure a marriage to the pernicious Jane Parker, now Lady Rochford—though if she can be called a lady, my mother was a duchess. That snake of a woman, stone-cold and calculating, drove him from her bed nearly every night, into either my welcoming arms or the company of his sisters. And while I will concede that George is guilty of adultery—one of thousands in this foul city, might I add—I am certain that incest is the falsest and most preposterous charge of all. The mere thought of Anne and George together by anyone who knows them intimately is almost absurd enough to be laughable. My anger rose at this harsh reminder of injustice, and I cried with even more passion.

"Hope does not cry, my love," he said softly, a tear landing on my cheek, delaying my anger for the present. "It merely sighs then smiles, looking ahead to the sunrise that will always come."

It took me a moment to lessen my sobs and sniffles. I had never known such grief and it seemed futile to contain it. Loving a Boleyn was certainly a painful enterprise—and I loved three. "The sunrise on the morrow will bring neither happiness nor hope," I stammered. "It will bring the end of my world. Your death will be commensurate to mine."

He hushed me, putting two fingers upon my lips. "No, Hope. Your life will not end. You will not let my fate quicken yours." George's hand cupped my chin and he looked into my wet eyes. "We all must meet our end, and it is God's wish that I meet mine on the morrow, on that pretty little green, right outside—"

I moaned at these words, unable to restrain myself. He squeezed me close, trying to hush me like a mother does a wailing child, but I was inconsolable. Only his sensuous touch could eventually quiet me, but as I gave myself to him one final time, he continued to kiss the tears from my soft, trembling cheeks.



The cool, fateful morning came, finding George and me warm in each other's embrace. The thick door was thrown open and four guards stepped inside, laughing at the two of us and making cruel jokes about sending me George's head wrapped as a present. One of them, a very fat and pungent man, grabbed me roughly by the hair and tried to pull me to my feet, severing the sacrosanct hold George's arm had around me. I ignored the pain of the man's roughness and their crude remarks as I blinked back the tears in my eyes, struggling to kiss George one final time. The fat guard allowed me to do so, but not without a mocking cackle.

"Kiss that pretty head one more time, lass! It won't be so warm the next time you see it!"

My mind was racing. Everything was happening so quickly, so wrongly. The fat guard ripped me from George's arms again as I screamed with fury and sadness. George reached for my hand and gave it a tender kiss before he was struck by the nearest guard. I wailed louder.

"Come now, you little whore! 'Nuff of that!" My captor yelled in my ear, striking me with the back of his huge, gloved hand. But I refused to be quiet, howling with even more intensity as I watched the merciless guards kick my helpless George with their hard boots and beat him with the shafts of their spears.

_I will never touch him again. I will never kiss or hold him again._

These depressing nevers consumed my thoughts. Through my tears I took in the sight of his fair skin, his elegant hands, his strong shoulders, realizing that the familiar sight of them would soon be gone.

A soothing whisper transcended the din of my screams, the shouts of the guards, and the rustle of George vainly trying to avoid the beatings on the hard floor. It was the gentle, velvety voice of my George. He was singing my favorite song—the same one he sang that passionate night under the oak tree on the Thames.

A warmth came over me, like the warmth of George's breath on my skin, as I descended into darkness, collapsing onto the floor.



"Wake up, dearie! Wouldn't want to miss this now would you?"

I slowly opened my eyes to the overcast day around me. I was dazed, confused and disoriented, gazing thither and hither from the disgusting gargoyles above to the damp, moss-covered stones of a nearby wall's façade where it met the ground, unaware of where I was. A portentous bell sounded from the pinnacle of the church—with its sorrowful song came the return of my memory.

George!

I realized I was hanging limp in someone's arms. With quick, sudden struggle I nearly fell to the ground, but the fat hands of the foul guard caught me, the pudgy fingers squeezing my fragile arms.

"Ah! Look here, whore!"

The sticky fingers gripped my chin and forced my gaze to the scaffold before me, tall and menacing, the wood stained a deep, sorrowful red. And there above my head, not more than three meters away, was George.

His head was on the stone. His lips moved in silent prayer.

And his eyes were on me.

"Take a good look. This will be the last time you see that pretty head on that pretty neck," mocked the guard, his rank breath warming my ear. He shouted up to my lover, "And that goes for you, too, you filth! Look at this pretty face!" He thrust my head towards his and kissed me on the mouth, his overpowering tongue nearly causing me to vomit. I did everything in my power to escape his disgusting hold, but the man was a giant. I tried to scream but failed, as my poor George watched above me.

The guard stopped kissing me for a moment to cruelly jest, "George Boleyn, this beautiful girl will be mine tonight! Tell me, is she has good as your sister in bed?" He laughed a drunken laugh, forcing one hand up my bodice and using his other to hold my head in the direction of the scaffold.

This was too much for me to bear. I felt dead already, the pain preventing me from feeling or thinking as the axe was lifted high into the downcast sky.

Here it was. Here was the end.

"I love you, Hope."

I wailed as the axe came down. My eyes were shut tight, but I could do nothing to muffle the sound of my George's death. Drops of his warm blood hit my face as I sank to the ground, slipping out of the guard's hands. With his role as tormenter now moot, he let me go, giving me a sharp kick before leaving me to wallow in my George's blood.

The world grew quiet. My body grew numb.



"Shhh," I whispered. I heard him crying. "Shhh, George, do not weep. Hope is here. Hope is here" My fingers moved gently over the wet stones as I stroked my George, humming a requiem for a lullaby. More blood dripped onto my face. I started, opening my eyes for a brief moment. Something was not right. "Shhh," I repeated, "Hope is coming. Hope is coming."

The world spun as I picked myself off the ground and I nearly fell on the slippery stones. Slowly, but gaining speed, I moved towards the scaffold steps. "Hope is coming," I reassured George, who was still crying, crying like he did the day his beloved hound, Willow, died in her sleep. My heart wrenched. He needed me and I was coming.

Running now, I reached the platform. I was almost there. It was strangely quiet, save for George's weeping. "Hope is coming, sweet George, please do not cry."

I grabbed the axe by the head and arranged the point carefully but swiftly under my bodice, its cool, unsullied tip piercing my skin. Something vainly tried to take hold of my dress. But then, without any hesitation, I fell beside my George, whispering sweet nothings as I ran into his arms.


End file.
